


Put That on Your Blog

by destinationtoast, i_ship_an_armada, Mars (lifeonmars), ShinySherlock, tiltedsyllogism



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Crack, M/M, Round Robin, Seriously crack, but not graphic, do not try this at home, just ridiculous, toes are not food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3158309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinationtoast/pseuds/destinationtoast, https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_ship_an_armada/pseuds/i_ship_an_armada, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeonmars/pseuds/Mars, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/pseuds/ShinySherlock, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiltedsyllogism/pseuds/tiltedsyllogism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is suddenly aware of Sherlock’s closeness and his warm breath on his neck. John tries to ignore the fact his breath smells slightly like feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put That on Your Blog

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So. CRACK. We took three words (PICKLE, ELF, SELFIE) and came up with this ridiculousness. :)

A whip cracks.  John looks up at the sound.

"Sherlock, goddammit, put the whip down!" John barks over his paper. It's the third time this week, and frankly, he doesn't feel like picking up the pieces of whatever Sherlock has destroyed _again._

Sherlock pouts. “John, how am I supposed to let you know my opinion about these pickles? I demand your attention this instant and the whip was the only sure way I could draw your attention my way.”  He bares his teeth. “These gherkins are _abominable_. I will not accept it.”

“Calling my name might work without being nearly as destructive,” John says with snark and then blinks, briefly regretting having convinced Sherlock to go as Indiana Jones for Halloween.   He frowns, the possibilities rolling through his mind. There aren’t many, considering they’ve been on a case for the past two weeks and are down to one can of beans and a quarter loaf of questionable bread. A trip to Tesco hasn’t been high on their priority list, to say the least.

There is only one option left, and John’s blood drains out of his face as it dawns on him what Sherlock is shoving in his mouth right now, the obnoxious crunching noise echoing behind him in the kitchen.

John goes very still. “Those…” He clears his throat. “Those aren’t gherkins.”

Standing and turning, though he’s afraid of what he’s about to see, John faces Sherlock. “Those are the toes you put in the fridge earlier.”

Sherlock’s expression turns meditative. “That does account for the texture.”

 _Why the fuck is Sherlock still chewing?_  Sherlock is still masticating thoughtfully, the whip temporarily limp and lifeless in his hand.

“No, John, it’s not as bad as you think.” He pauses, puts down the whip, and makes a note on his pad. “You know, I could use a second set of taste buds. Could you perhaps….”

John drops his chin and glares. “No.”

Coming over to where Sherlock stands, John assesses the situation. The toes were relatively fresh, as Molly had just harvested them that morning, and they’ve been swimming in preservative since then in the refrigerator. In John’s professional medical opinion, though it had never been put to use quite like this, the odds are good that Sherlock will survive, so John figures, what’s the harm in a little fun?

He taps his finger on his bottom lip, looking thoughtful. “What you need is a selfie.”

Sherlock looks confused. "John, I don’t see how an elf is going to help anything."

"You're joking, right?" John opens his mouth and then closes it again, flummoxed at Sherlock’s perpetual ignorance about popular culture, mythical creatures, and generally any of the things that John finds convenient to make references to.

"How often do I joke?"

“It’s a type of elf, isn’t it?  That’s what I think you need, anyway.  The type that watches what you eat and stops you before you eat a toe gherkin.  I think it’s called a selfie.”

“By that definition, _you’re_ my selfie. Though not a very good one.”  Sherlock takes another bite of toe to emphasize his point, and then contemplates it, his expression saying _this is surprisingly okay._

John snorts and grabs the whip, his need to put things in order overwhelming him. Coiling it up and setting back on the table, he takes out his phone.

“This,” he says, holding the phone up in front of both of them, “is a ‘selfie’.”

One arm holding the phone out, the other sliding around Sherlock’s shoulders, John grins and takes a photo of Sherlock mid-bite before Sherlock can object.

“Wait.” The tall slender detective in the tightly fitting purple shirt frowns. “What are you doing?”

John’s fingers are flying over the screen of his phone. “Nothing.”

“You’re putting this on your silly little blog, aren’t you? You’re telling the world I eat toes?”

John snorts, thinking it ironic that Sherlock should be more concerned about people’s _reactions_ to his food consumption than what he is _eating._

“It makes you more human! People like humans!” He starts to back away, recognizing the furrowed brows and the dark, sparking look in his eyes. Sherlock prowls after him and takes a swipe with his hand to grab for it.

Reminded of a cat swatting at a feather on a stick, John contemplates tying the phone to the whip and literally dangling it in front of Sherlock for a moment, and a giggle escapes his lips.

“Eating discarded body parts makes me more human?” Sherlock growls.

“Well… closer to a human than a robot, at least?  But you have a point,” John says, reaching for the Post button.

John keeps ahead of Sherlock, avoiding Sherlock’s attempts to ensnare him, holding the phone just out of his reach. After they circle the kitchen table several times, Sherlock grows more frustrated with each step, until finally he gives up and makes a spectacular leap tackle worthy of a world class rugby player.

They land hard on the ground, their breath whooshing out of their lungs, Sherlock squashing John. The phone skitters out of John’s hand and it slides under the refrigerator until John hears it thunk against the wall.

Shit.

He grunts. His shoulder blades ache as they press against the linoleum. “Gah, Sherlock, are you _trying_ to feel like a sack of wet concrete? Jesus. Just how many of those toes did you _eat?!?”_

Sherlock smiles, the slightly evil, entirely enticing smile he gets when he’s feeling playful. “I thought I was ‘human’,” he says, and John is suddenly aware of Sherlock’s closeness and his warm breath on his neck. He tries to ignore the fact Sherlock's breath smells slightly like feet.

John recognizes the look in Sherlock’s eyes and begins to panic. “No.”

Sherlock is only encouraged and leans in for a kiss.

They struggle for a moment, because GOD, John doesn’t want to taste toes, but Sherlock is determined, and plants a sloppy, wet kiss on John’s tightly closed lips.

Sherlock lifts his lips away with a loud smack, and John yelps and splutters. “Gah! That was… horrible.”

Grinning, Sherlock pushes back and says, “Put _that_ on your blog.”

 


End file.
